By Chidima Anekwe ’24
Editor-in-Chief
Random Disclaimer (Tyler the Creator style):
“Red Vines” was written as a creative exercise in response to “Cat Person” by Kristen Roupenian, a short story published in the New Yorker that went viral a few years ago. My piece takes the exposition of the story and reorients it in the point of view of Robert, the male love interest. In my interpretation, I seek to highlight early on what only becomes irrefutable at the story’s very end: Robert is downright Machiavellian in his artful yet unassailable embodiment of the male manipulator archetype. He is male manipulator. He invented male manipulation.
Now I know “Cat Person” and its characters are so unmistakably white-coded, but I’m convinced that women of color—especially Black women—are more likely to be preyed upon by the male manipulators of our social worlds than our white counterparts are, specifically because they know we are set to be uniquely vulnerable in relationships, already in a position of diminished power. And so, “Cat Person,” (and perhaps “Red Vines”) must resonate with us especially, those of us who have gotten to know the Roberts of the world all too well.
I urge you to read (or better yet, listen to) “Cat Person” here before entering into this ephemeral re-imagining. Not only is “Cat Person” just really, inexplicably good (and you’ll thank me after), but it provides crucial context.
Okay, are you done with that? Yes? Then you may now read on:
Red Vines
You don’t have anything better to do on a Wednesday night. Why would you? You’re stuck living in what’s perhaps the dullest suburb in Washington (not DC., the good Washington), you’ve been “in-between-jobs” long enough that you can no longer remember exactly what jobs you’re supposed to be “in-between,” and you haven’t felt the touch of a woman in just as long. Not that you care.
But soon enough you tire of your favorite game: spamming crank calls to your ex-girlfriend from five years ago while making yourself sick with your classic combo of whiskey and pizza bagels, blasting Weezer and Radiohead from the janky home stereo system you thrifted with its ever-so-subtle (and ever-so-maddening) distorted echo effect.
So you go to the movies. Not the big multiplex nearby where your ex-girlfriend likes to go and her new boyfriend as well who, of course, is also your brother, but the little movie house just out of town that no one of significance goes to. You know, the one with all the Quentin Tarantino film showings? How many times can one little movie house play “Pulp Fiction”—Marvel movies do exist, you know.
Not that you go to the movies for the movies. No, you’ve never cared about that. You go to sit in a dark room surrounded by intimate strangers and put a pause on the real world for an hour or two. And for the popcorn.
You go to the concession stand and survey your options. Popcorn and Red Vines it is. As you make this order, the girl behind the counter makes a face.
“That’s an . . . unusual choice,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually sold a box of Red Vines before.”
Her voice is low and uninterested, but her eyes are smiling. They don’t leave yours. You size her up. She’s short, but has a nice body. She has a mole above her upper lip that somehow ages her, though she looks pretty young for the most part—can’t be any older than 18 or 19 years old. If even.
But she’s a brunette, and you’re really much more into blondes.
You take your change and leave her there, visibly thrown. You kind of like the feeling of it. Being the one to leave, being able to make a (somewhat) attractive girl look so unhappy because of your leaving. It feels oddly intoxicating.
You’re back less than a week later.
You hated the Red Vines the last time you got them—you’d thought they’d taste the same as Twizzlers but for cheaper. They did not. But you are forced to order them again, in order to lay the trap.
This time, however, the girl makes no comment.
As she wordlessly drags the box of red rope out of its display case, you realize her ego had been bruised the last time, and figure now it’s your turn to initiate the conversation.
“You’re getting better at your job,” you tell her. “You managed not to insult me this time.”
At this she grins toothily, and you know that you are back in the game. You wait until your movie finishes and on your way out of the theater, ask for her number. Unsurprisingly, she gives it to you.
She spends the next few weeks texting you incessantly. Unfortunately, you forget her name when she first tells you back at the theater and are now forced to solely refer to her as “concession stand girl,” which, hopefully, she assumes is just an endearing sobriquet. But she’s a pretty cool girl. Annoyingly pretentious in her interests, unfailingly condescending with her sense of humor, but cool.
You try to gauge when an appropriate time would be to ask her to hook up, but the conversations never veer anywhere near that territory. Instead, she insists upon a convoluted, seemingly never-ending back-and-forth battle of wits. It’s obvious she thinks herself very clever. You let her carry the conversation, just to watch her do it.
It is fun being on the other side of the fence for once.
